Alas, winter chill,
you cold-hearted soul;
you interrupt my
intake of reverie.
In sweet, sweet sorrow
I clip the last blooms of fall --
wildflowers glowing in
fuchsia, crimson, burgundy and linen.
This daybreak, just past the first frost,
the browning of burn now
presses their edges.
alas, valiance on display until the very last,
but for one.
One set of glowing petals peeks from below,
having crept around and under;
its parent stem bent and broken to the ground,
yet, this one has found its way to shine upward.
… diminutive, brilliant, petite and perfect.
Why am I surprised this vine has bloomed so,
has outlasted its fellows
there in its poverty and low estate?
In its meekness
All of these and beauty, too.
Why, did I presuppose?
its offering would be less,
its contribution trivial,
the bridal bouquet awaits
its day at the altar,
its fulfillment in the one
now counted upon.